A Walter Cronkite Story

My Yahoo! screen shows Walter Cronkite dies after a lengthy illness. I find my Facebook chums churning out the Youtube clips of famous moments from CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. I comment on one that he was the face of news for America when he anchored his nightly desk for the Tiffany Network.

Sad to see another 20th Century icon disappear from the stage. I might be sad because it makes me realize the time we walk on this rock is so fleeting. Walter's death reminds many of us just how long we have been here. We take a little stock of things to see how we measure on days like this. I come up very short next to the likes of Walter. Seeing his face on the Facebook walls I pause and remember one day twenty-five years ago very fondly.

I worked for Tower Records, and on this particular day the boss, San Francisco's regional manager, and I were going to lunch with Larry from Polygram. The chosen restaurant was on the edge of Chinatown at one of Herb Caen's favorite eating haunts. Nobody made huge money working for Tower Records, but the perks were always awesome. Larry was rewarding the Columbus & Bay store for hitting an all-time purchasing high with Polygram. A huge Donna Summer record could have been a big reason for our success, but Donna was a not available for lunch. And who were we to refuse such generosity and praise?

The three of us were waiting for our reserved table, and chatting in the very small foyer of the restaurant when Walter Cronkite with his diminutive wife on his arm walked through the door. At this juncture, in the presence of the most famous living newscaster on the planet at the time, I could not control myself. I moved away from Kenny and Larry and welcomed Walter and his wife to San Francisco, and to this world class establishment with a firm handshake. The maitre' D from the restaurant saw this brief interaction, and hurriedly broke between us and whisked Mr. and Mrs. Cronkite from my clutches to "Mr. Caen's special table."

We were seated not far from the Cronkites, but far enough away with plenty of waiters in between to prevent me from any more audacious maneuvers. My companions chided me and joked a bit about the encounter, but we settled down for some serious wine and food explorations. We talked of wineries in Napa, of Chardonnays and Pinot Noirs. We talked music. We discussed expansion plans and what promise the compact disc showed for the industry. We talked MTV. We ate great food and drank great wine. As we were having another bottle opened and poured for us, who should come to the table? Walter Cronkite tapped my shoulder and thanked me for the heartfelt welcome. He actually winked when he said heartfelt and escorted his wife from the dining area. For one of the few times in my life I was speechless.

We were all a little dumbfounded, but not so dumb as to ignore the glasses in front of us and begin work on a fabulous early 1970s Cabernet. We laughed and spoke about what great times these were to work and live in The City.

When lunch was done I floated back to the store. You could feel the energy around the place. The parking lot was full. The boards on the wall showcased what was cool that month. The marquee had the upcoming in-store details and when the door flew open as a few customers exited I got a big blast of She Works Hard For The Money in my ears.

Another giant passes away today. Thanks for the wonderful memories, Walter. Goodnight.

Blast into the Past

East-West

What a time. Turmoil meets love in a crowded hemp-smoke haze of wake up. The college cats in college towns across Uncle Sam's spaces and places spurn the B-Invasion of pimply-primped pop idols. Black meets white in the Aftermath of watching the House Burning Down in Motown. Hell Night!

Free speech ultimately costs taxpayers and a Chancellor plenty. Girls fill with The pill while other mixtures from the chem lab spawn a frenzy of obsession in a fanciful revolution of libertine passion mixed with mescaline. Mr. Folk, some say, he die when roots electrify on some upper crust resort. Sho' nuff.

Colors, repressed for so long, ring out with a Boldness that tilts the Axis of Love on every street. Ties widen, eyes brighten and bras burn, but album covers get the the censors turn while fat joints simmer amid purple and red bell bottoms. Light My Fire!

Can you cop the mood? Would a smoke and cognac brighten the interlude between Now! and Them? Zen! A late decade moment where Dharma sped past Kharma to some secluded celebrity get away and found virtue unmasked by the currency of greed.

The orbs of 1966 dance underneath the paisley muslin blouses. They invite you to stare at them. The word magnificence does not do them justice as the tips protrude as though defying gravity while the pair sway to a shuffle on their own terms. Form stripped bare among piles of flannel bags and thumbs flagging along the highways. Put on Paul Butterfield's East-West and roll those balls. Time never matters in that true zone, and this song always finds the zone.

Out of Time

Time plays out differently this week. Silence fills the air at points when an apparatus should ring. The favored chairs now empty in the familiar house listen to the answering machine with his voice asking to leave a message he will never receive. Endless syncopation with no riff. It could be Coltrane.

My father left this space and time on a quiet Friday morning this July. What is left of what was is a distant memory now. Ken Thrasher, the complex and complicated individual fell and just faded away after eighty-four years on the planet. At one point he stood six feet and three inches tall with 180 pounds on his angular frame. The last month of his life the doctor measured him at just under six feet while weighing around130 pounds. Time exacts a toll on every person. The beat with no meat who could disappear within a tear. It could be Monk.

All the gifts of youth in the hands and eyes wore away over the years. The last decade found the comfort of the piano, or the pad and pencil lost to unsteady hands. The hands became constant reminders of fleeting youth and how quickly it disappeared into the shakiness of a dissonant pattern called old age. The platter of patter. It could be the Duke.

Sad sentiments have no place now. Spirit shines brightly and echoes reverberate with piano and laughter. Voices chime in on familiar choruses as the keys pound the flights of mental improvisations the player pulls from the air. It could be Bud Powell.

Reunions await in the land of dreams beyond the banal of earth. Youth and wisdom wander in the ether of another dimension. Free from cares and a life of recycling into the endless today of constant now. I remember you. I whistle your tunes and admire your art and the faithful ledgers you crafted. It was a nice visit. I still have Fats and Brubeck on the hi-fi to keep us company after our last conversation.

Goodbye, Dad. Find out what your wife was up to all these years in the cosmos. We'll stay tuned.

Tommy, can you hear me?

Ever feel like a pinball? Just ricochet violently from one post to another, and then get the paddle just as you start to relax? Is this my life life now?

Bed was blessed relief at 10pm Sunday night on June 29, 2009. Stretched out after the dog finished his cozy time on the corner and flew into his own little sleep area, I could just feel the muscles unwind. Ring. Ring. Ring. Uh-oh.

Dad fell getting into bed and could not get up. Ouch, I knew the night would be a long one. Relayed the message to my sweetie while getting the pants on, and the shirt. Grabbed the keys and downed a glass of water for the road. In days gone by it might have been a much stiffer beverage, but experience taught me that for long hauls and endless pacing back and forth in long corridors water was the tonic.

When I entered the familiar parental bedroom I saw the blood on the left arm from the huge slice the wooden bed-runner edge exacted during the fall. I still hear the complaint in the voice that whispered, "I can't get up." The nurse showed up about fifteen minutes later from the hospice organization. I had managed to pull my father onto the bed and swab his wound with some wash cloths. She wrapped the wound and called the ambulance. I pulled out the distilled vinegar to remove the blood stains from the carpet while we waited.

The ambulance arrived, and with great difficulty the paramedics moved my father out through the narrow hallway and into the ambulance. The meet up would take place at the chosen hospital. Nights at the ER are tough on the system. The staff are trained and qualified, and completely overwhelmed. Yes, I remember the waiting room filled to the max. Just like the many other times we had driven into the ER-zone over the past couple of years.

X-rays were painful and strained. With the short staff at 2AM I got to don the lead jacket and assist the radiologist. The verdict was a slight fracture of the hip. Not good news for a frail 84 year-old. Nothing more I could do that morning, so I drove home and supplied the details to my nearest and dearest. Bad break all around.

Monday was a wide array of emotions from my father in the hospital and calls to family members near and far. My sister was in Pennsylvania finishing up a sale of some major personal property to a Kentucky family. She was not sure when she would be able to get out. Might be six days, could be longer. I told her I would keep her updated.

Monday night dad began to feel both the pain medications and grim reality. He was all over the place and barely rational. By Tuesday, his body was under siege with an oxygen mask, catheters and IVs stuck in several locations while medications and plasma transfusions poured into him. He was gasping and struggling all day. He struggled so violently restraints had to be used after he badly tore up both forearms against the hospital bed supports. I was sure this was the end when I left Tuesday night.

Wednesday morning, with no call from the hospital, I went down to see what the condition was. He still had the oxygen mask, but was now calm and bandaged from the previous day's battle. He looked terrible, like some prize fighter had tagged him repeatedly for fifteen rounds, leaving him swollen and bruised and not knowing where he was or who he was talking with. Doctors said he was responding to their efforts and they tentatively scheduled hip surgery for the Thursday, July 2. I was dumbfounded. But, I reminded myself- I am not a medical doctor. We would wait and see how he progressed.

Many visits on Wednesday and not much improvement. Strange to converse with a person who can only register sounds just above a whisper in a hospital. Stranger still to get close, and hear he doesn't know where the hell he is, or who the hell he is talking to. But, surgery was still a distinct possibility for Thursday. I wasn't buying it, but stranger things may have happened somewhere.

Thursday found the patient still disoriented but lucid for moments. My youngest arrived at noon, and we went for a visit. Dad seemed to recognize the youthful face, and thanked him for coming. Tests seemed to indicate that surgery would be delayed until Friday while the surgeon discussed with the anesthetist what anesthesia should be used, and the cardiologist said no general anesthetic should be applied during the operation due to the fragile status of the patient's heart. I tried to inform my father of the events as they were going down, some stuck some did not.

Friday morning arrived after another long night of little sleep, and surgery was definitely going to happen. The team of doctors had determined that a local would be given and a quick surgical procedure would be performed to insert three screws into the fracture to secure the hip. The surgery went smoothly, and my dad seemed to be more cognizant of the events and people surrounding him all of Friday.

The weekend saw discussions of moving to a rehab facility amid fits and starts of temper and discomfort from the now week long hospital stay. The nurses and doctors had lost their appeal. They were now bosses giving directions and demanding effort and movements that caused some pain and distress on the injured party. Rehab departure dates depended on white cell counts getting back to reasonable levels.

Monday's exit was postponed until Tuesday. Tuesday morning saw my youngest son depart back to Sacramento. The patient was gloomy all day, believing he was never leaving the hospital. Tuesday's release was postponed until today. His arms continued to look very bad, and his hands shake uncontrollably most of the time. He needs assistance to feed himself, to shuffle with a walker 20 steps before being completely exhausted and crumpling back into his former prone position. The lucidity seems to come and go, but it may be the case that the end truly is in sight for him and it is overwhelming. The peace that the morphine brought has been replaced by a reality where there are few questions left to answer satisfactorily.

Of course, my dearest and I have lots of questions on our minds regarding what happens next to our immediate lives, which now seem hinged on each medical outcome of my father. The return home could mean moving in with him and having some hospice care resume. This is an option both of us have declared is not viable given our own household circumstance. My sister who will finally arrive Thursday afternoon, July 9, will not be able to fill much of a role as an elder care giver due to her occupational circumstance. If the rehab makes some progress the likelihood of dad living out the time he has in our home becomes a very real probability. There are nursing homes (convalescent hospitals or skilled nursing facilities) that might be a possibility but those are slight options. The relatives have been very supportive over the phone, but have no answers.

We wait and see. We bounce plans off one another here at home during the brief off moments, both acknowledging the hours are dwindling but looking at another paddle tanning our backsides into motion on a journey where we have no end date.

"Tommy, can you hear me?"